


Advanced Continuing Education

by Euny_Sloane, Melibe



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medical, Beelzebub Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Female Gabriel (Good Omens), Gabriel Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Multiple Orgasms, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Other, Porn With Plot, Tattoos, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting, Wet & Messy, and there was only one panel, brief bystander misgendering, but the fisting is so soft we promise, combative flirting, gentle angst, medical conference, obstreperous obstetrics, some queerphobia but in context pretty light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euny_Sloane/pseuds/Euny_Sloane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/pseuds/Melibe
Summary: BZ Kingson, CNM, runs their own independent group of midwives. They’ve heard plenty about Dr. Angela E. Gabriel, hypercompetent and every bit as cold and impersonal as the hospital where she directs obstetrics. When the two practitioners meet at a conference, BZ is already spoiling for a fight, but they don’t expect the instant attraction that makes them want to tackle the good doctor in a more intimate setting. Angela, for her part, can’t understand why this prickly little midwife won’t leave her alone. And she’s starting to realize that she doesn’t want them to...
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekwill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/gifts).



> Happy birthday to a wonderful friend and writer! We hope you enjoy this highly-industry-specific IB smut.

Beez heard a snort from their left side. It was loud, and painfully obvious. 

Who would be that rude during a conference presentation on the history and contemporary practice of midwifery? Beez glanced over and saw a tall, square-jawed woman looking derisively ahead.

Of course. Dr. Gabriel. _Everything_ about her was loud and painfully obvious, from the pricey grey suit with the pearl earrings (which probably cost as much as Beez's rent) to the dismissive motion of her lovely mouth. Apparently, something about the presenter’s slide on the role of doulas in a complex healthcare environment had offended her.

Beez had never met Dr. Gabriel before, but they’d heard about her. You didn’t work as a midwife in one city for ten years without getting an impression of the OB/GYNs at all the major hospitals, and here’s what they’d heard about Dr. Angela E. Gabriel: extremely competent, ruthlessly efficient, and utterly lacking in bedside manner. She was the kind of doctor who considered an emergency c-section an unmitigated success as long as mother and child emerged without medical complications, emotional trauma be damned.

And here she was, scoffing at the presenter’s data on the value of doulas in preserving positive outcomes for hospital births. As Beez watched out of the corner of their eye, Dr. Gabriel actually slipped her phone out of the pocket of her tailored slacks and started to thumb across the screen.

Beez leaned across the two empty seats between them and growled, “If it’s that important, you should take it outside.”

For a second, it seemed as if Dr. Gabriel hadn’t heard them. Then she turned to Beez, hair swishing over her shoulders in soft brown waves. She stared at them through elegant gold half-rims. “It’s none of your business.”

Well, if _that_ wasn’t an invitation to a fight. Beez injected extra venom into their tone. “You’re disrespecting the presenter and everyone else in the audience. Go outside or put your fucking phone away.”

Dr. Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse _you_ , that is completely--”

“Hey, could you keep it down, please?” A short blonde man turned around from the next row up, frowning and shaking his head.

Beez kept their gaze fixed on Dr. Gabriel. The woman pressed her lips together (she had nice lips, thought Beez, plump and shiny like fruit that wanted biting), scooped up her shoulder bag, and got to her feet. Beez watched her stride down the aisle, hair swinging. Fuck, she was pretty, even in a huff. Especially in a huff.

Beez sighed. They’d been gearing up for a good argument, maybe making a scene, and their sparring partner had just bowed out. It was, ostensibly, what they’d wanted. But it left them at loose ends.

They didn’t like conferences, didn’t like the tidal flow of crowds in and out of rooms, full of strangers who either ignored Beez, bumped into them, then had the gall to look offended when Beez cussed them out, or else stared at them surreptitiously over the edge of folded programs, eyes full of rude questions and ruder assumptions that made Beez want to cuss them out even more.

They liked to be alone unless their interactions with people had a reason, a focus. Talking to patients was good, helping them cut through the byzantine bullshit of the birthing business. Treating patients was even better. In their softer moments, Beez thought that their hands had been made for this work, deft and careful, feeling babies grow and guiding them into the world.Telling off Dr. Gabriel had given them that same flash of purpose, something to sink their teeth into beyond the bland interactions of a big, impersonal conference. It didn’t hurt that Dr. Gabriel herself looked good enough to sink their teeth into. That mouth, for one thing. And the curve of her neck, just visible through a curtain of silky hair.

Beez realized they weren’t paying attention to the slides, and the content of this presentation wasn’t exactly news to them, anyway. So they got up and slipped out the door, at least a little more discreet than _everyone-look-at-me-I’m-Dr.-Gabriel._

They found her standing in the hall, her perfect eyebrows pulled together in irritation as she stared at her phone. Beez folded their arms. “So, it was important, then?”

Without looking up, she answered, “More important than that feel-good hippie nonsense.”

Beez was deeply pleased that the doctor felt as antagonistic as they did. "You _would_ say something like that."

Dr. Gabriel raised her eyes from her phone just long enough to give Beez a once-over. She frowned. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I’ve heard about you. Typical short-sighted elitist interventionist MD."

"Wow, right,” she murmured. “Clearly I _should_ get to know you, with a personality like that."

"I know your reputation at the hospital, doc,” Beez shot back. This was definitely the highlight of the conference so far. “Don't think you've got a leg to stand on."

". . . and you are, what?” Dr. Gabriel finally pocketed her phone. Her gaze slid over Beez, taking in their fitted jeans and jersey blazer, obviously trying to read them. _Good fucking luck_ , thought Beez. The doctor tilted her head. “Student? Doula?”

Beez laughed, short and harsh. “BZ Kingson, CNM. I’ve been running my own group for ten years.”

“I see.” If Dr. Gabriel was impressed in any way, it didn’t show on her face. Which was fine. Beez didn’t do what they did to impress anyone, least of all an impeccably-dressed big-hospital doctor with a stick up her ass. But that didn’t make the doctor’s next barb sting any less. “So you’re one of those idealistic fools who think we're better off letting infants die if they can’t get to the hospital in time."

“You don’t know anything about me or my practice, if you’re spouting shit like that.” Beez took a few steps forward. They had to tilt their head back to maintain eye contact, which was worth it to see the way Dr. Gabriel shifted as they invaded her space.

“No, I don’t. Because you’re the one who accosted me, making personal remarks for no reason.” She sniffed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, drawing Beez’s eyes to her fingers.

They were long and elegant, enhanced by a flawless manicure. Beez added them to the growing list of things on Dr. Gabriel that they wanted to bite. The doctor thought that Beez was making _personal remarks_? She had no idea how _personal_ they could get. They thought about licking the tip of one of those fingers, sucking it into their mouth, letting their teeth scrape over the knuckle and across the nail. Would she scold them for damaging her expensive manicure, in that low, liquid voice of hers? More likely, she’d be too shocked to speak.

“I don’t have time to stand around arguing with ignorant fleas,” Dr. Gabriel said, brushing nonexistent dust off her lapels. “It’s time for the roundtable on prenatal nutrition.”

“Are you kidding?” laughed Beez, who knew the moderators hadn’t updated their messaging in ten years. “That's going to be a complete waste of time."

They caught a slight quirk at the corner of the woman’s mouth, as if she almost wanted to agree with them, before she flattened it out. “So, still better than talking to you."

Dr. Gabriel spun on her heel and stalked down the hall. Beez watched her go, wishing they could grab a handful of that thick hair, and admiring how the soft gray suit clung to the curves of her body.

_Fuck_. This growing hunger in their belly had nothing to feed on. Dr. Gabriel was obviously straight. And just as obviously a self-important know-it-all who lived up to everything Beez had heard about her and more. They recalled her jab about letting infants die, and their fists clenched.

How uncomfortable would the good doctor get, if they decided to hit on her? They licked the sharp edges of their teeth. Finding out could be _fun_.

* * *

Angela didn’t know why she kept going to these conferences when they were such a colossal waste of time. She never learned anything new. Presenters either fumbled through material she could learn in a quarter of the time by scanning recent publications, or rehashed bullshit she’d seen year after year. “How to Communicate Effectively with Patients” (wouldn’t be a problem if patients looked up from their phones long enough to pay attention), “Current Trends in Healthcare” (the last fifteen years had seen just one trend: worse and worse outcomes since nobody bothered with appropriate preventive care), and an array of similar garbage. It all blurred together and left her antsy for the peace of her own home, clean and open and free of idiots. 

So she’d already been irritated before that pint-sized, interfering midwife had the gall to scold her in the presentation earlier that day. And then one email did in the last of Angela’s patience: the final list of panelists, including herself, for the next afternoon. When her eye caught one of the names, she cursed aloud, garnering a raised eyebrow from the conference attendee who’d just walked in front of her. 

Angela didn’t bother to clarify that the word she’d spat out wasn’t directed at some nosy stranger. She was too busy resisting the temptation to email the panel organizer and point out that a nurse midwife had no business on a panel concerning high-risk pregnancies. Their only role in that process was to hand off the patient to someone more qualified as soon as possible, but Angela doubted that BZ (what a pretense, going by initials--almost painfully queer of them) would have such a reasonable take. 

Still staring down at the offending email, Angela winced. She would never have said that aloud, about anyone’s name. It wasn’t BZ’s fault that Angela always had to make the first move with anyone who wasn’t a guy, or that the last few times she’d gone to an event with queer women, everyone had assumed she was new to the scene, perhaps a divorcée trying something different. It was bad enough that Angela hadn’t even tried to take someone home, convinced that she’d face a barrage of vague questions from some smug dyke who didn’t want to be Angela’s “first.” At least her vibrator didn’t ask for references in the form of mutual exes. As if Angela had enough time to collect exes, especially since she’d been named director of the hospital’s OB/GYN department. 

But Angela knew that BZ wasn’t to blame for any of that. Just like she knew that the way she looked and dressed and sounded made things easier for her at work. Not easier than it was for the dicks she’d had to compete with, all through medical school and up the promotion ladder at the hospital, but easier than it surely was for BZ. Their abrasive personality couldn’t be doing them any favors, either.

Bit of a shame, really, that they were so rude. Because they were very nice to look at.

Angela sighed. What she needed was a quiet drink and an early night. If she was lucky, there’d be a decent salad on the bar menu, something light and not too boring. Maybe she’d hit the hotel gym tomorrow morning before everyone else showed up, and shake off some of this mood.

She turned a corner into the bar and saw every table taken. Sighing, she headed toward the counter--where a dark-haired person was already perched on a stool, their feet barely reaching the rungs. And damn, those jeans really did make their ass look good. 

Angela groaned internally. She did not need an opportunity to be rejected, certainly not by some infuriating midwife who thought they had any business telling high-risk patients anything other than the directions to the hospital. 

At least there were several empty stools left. Angela took a seat one over from BZ, and hoped that if she just kept her eyes on her phone and the bartender . . .

“Oh, great,” came the mutter from her left. 

It had been too much to hope she could have a glass of Chardonnay in peace. “Excuse me?”

BZ swiveled in their seat. “Doesn’t this hotel have two bars? Doesn’t this city have other bars? And yet. Here you are, Dr. Angela E. Gabriel. Drinking with an _ignorant flea_.” 

Was Angela imagining it, or did BZ sound irritated, but also . . . playful? “I suppose,” she conceded, pinching the bridge of her nose, “it could be useful to discuss our expectations for the panel tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes. The panel.” BZ managed to convey as much disgust as if they’d said, _the pile of dog shit_. For a moment Angela entertained the briefest hope that the organizers had placed BZ on the panel by mistake, and they saw the oddness of it as clearly as Angela did. Maybe they’d already sent an angry e-mail of their own, and the lineup was being rearranged.

Then BZ went on, “I can’t believe they’ve got _you_ talking up there.”

Angela’s hand closed into a fist on the bar, but she kept her voice calm. “Over a third of my patients are in one or more high-risk categories. I have the hospital’s best track record of healthy deliveries. My experience--”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” interrupted BZ. They grabbed a potato skin from the plate at their elbow and gestured with it, a precarious pile of sour cream and bacon. “Haven’t you already said everything you’ve got to say? Hasn’t everyone heard it already? How long have you been coming to these conferences anyway, twenty, thirty years?”

“I’m not _that_ old,” snapped Angela, and half a second later caught the amusement in BZ’s eye. They’d been purposefully needling her. She turned away from them, reached over the bar and plucked a menu from a stack on the other side. None of the servers had been attentive enough to offer her one.

“What are you having?” asked BZ. 

Angela frowned at the single pathetic iceberg salad on the menu, wondering the same thing. A small finger jabbed aggressively into her field of view, and Angela realized that BZ had moved into the seat next to hers. “Get the mozzarella sticks.”

Angela resented both their sudden intrusion into her space and the command itself. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t have to. Everyone likes mozzarella sticks.” Then BZ actually snatched the menu out of Angela’s hands and flicked it back across the counter. “Glad I could help.”

Angela took a deep breath, taming the urge to knock the pushy little midwife right off their stool. “It’s more food than I want. ”

“That’s all right.” BZ took a long drink, licked the moisture from their lips, then smirked at Angela. “I’ll finish whatever you can’t.”

How could a person be so aggravating and so attractive at the same time? Angela wanted to kiss that awful smile right off their face, to tilt their head and scratch her nails over their scalp as their mouths met in an intimate battle.

But much as Angela enjoyed a combative approach to personal interactions, there was still the issue of the panel to sort out. She decided to offer an olive branch in the form of a reasonable argument. "Look, you have to agree that there’s a place for midwifery, and a place for modern medicine. And I’m not saying they don’t overlap, but _especially_ in high-risk scenarios, I don't want my patients swanning in with a whole entourage, partner and midwife and doula and a goddamn birth plan as if having a baby was like placing an order for takeout. 'Extra cheesy music, scented oils, hold the epidural.' My work is hard enough without all that shit."

“Any doulas worth their salt would have talked through the uncertainty of birth with their clients. They make your work easier, dumbshit.” Beez drained the last of their drink and slammed the empty glass down on the bar. "Besides, if doctors had a reputation for explaining procedures clearly and giving patients autonomy, then maybe no one would feel like they had to bring an army to the hospital."

"I explain procedures very clearly.” Angela couldn’t help enjoying the knit of Beez’s eyebrows and their cross downturned mouth. “For example, I'm about to buy you a drink, and so that you drink it instead of giving me shit about it, you're going to tell me what you want."

BZ drummed their fingers on the bar. “Cider. Angry Orchard. It’s the only one they’ve _got_.”

Angela could tell that BZ had opinions about cider, but she just nodded as she waved over the bartender. “Cute. My nephew likes apple juice, too.”

“Hey, fuck you,” said BZ pleasantly. They waited for Angela to order, then said, “So. What would you say was the worst part of the keynote?”

Angela groaned. There was so much to choose from. “I might have to pick the way he shoehorned in a thank-you to the conference organizers at the last--”

“--because I thought it was his truly terrible comb-over,” interrupted BZ. 

“ _You’re_ terrible,” said Angela, laughing even as she chastised them. “Focusing on appearances like that.”

“I am terrible. But you're laughing. At least I don’t pretend.” BZ had finished their potato skins. They pushed a finger through the leftover toppings, collecting sour cream and bacon and then bringing it to their lips to clean off with quick darting swipes of their tongue. It was so obvious that Angela almost wanted to laugh, except BZ wasn’t eyeing her for a reaction. They were just _really_ enjoying their food. 

She swallowed. "So, BZ is short for--"

"It's short for shut the fuck up and drink your wine so I can get the next round."

"Just BZ, then."

"Knew you must have made it through med school somehow." They paused, before adding, "But Beez is fine."

Angela nodded, grinning. "Like the insects."

Beez rolled their eyes. "Never heard that one before. Real creative. Still, better than a flea."

Angela felt a fleeting urge to apologize, but the flavor of Beez’s grin assuaged it. They were needling her again. Or not just needling. Maybe flirting. 

_Well, one way to find out,_ she thought, nudging her plate of mozzarella sticks closer to Beez.

They leaned forward to grab a tube of fried cheese, and their neckline of their shirt dragged down their back, revealing a delicate tracery of lines, of . . . wings? Maybe it was the wine, maybe that’s why Angela was so curious to see the rest of it. 

It was definitely because of the wine that she asked. “What’s that on your neck?”

Beez glanced behind them, as if they could see the back of their neck. “It’s a tattoo. You _have_ seen tattoos, right?”

A laugh blossomed out of Angela’s chest, feeling unexpectedly warm. “Yes, in all my years I have seen _tattoos_ before. Do you deliberately misunderstand your patients like this? How do you get anything done?”

Beez's answering laugh wasn’t as sharp as the ones from this morning, not even as sharp as the ones from earlier that evening. “You won’t like it.”

“How do you know?”

Beez looked Angela up and down, lingering on her neck, her hips, a slow track down along her ankles. They leaned forward and reached out as if to touch her pearl earrings, and Angela felt the air ghost past her ear, wishing those deft hands would make contact. They leaned back in their seat, looking all too pleased with themself, saying, “It’s written all over you. Bet you don’t approve of tattoos, for starters, and certainly not this one.”

Angela didn’t know how Beez’s barbs could be so appealing, but she felt it, undeniable, a slight warmth in her cheeks, an answering warmth in her belly insufficiently explained by two glasses of wine. “Try me.”

Beez made another abortive glance over their shoulder, reached a finger up to hook in their collar and, turning their back to Angela, revealed the top of a much larger tattoo than she had expected. 

Angela leaned forward. She could see something insectoid, but her view was still cut off by the shirt. She placed one hand gently on top of Beez’s and asked, surprised by the softness in her tone, “May I?”

Beez’s backwards look was accompanied by a jerky little nod, both gestures seeming more genuine, less rehearsed, than the guarded and provocative expressions they’d favored Angela with that day. They said, “Sure,” and released their collar. 

Angela tucked her index fingers into the space Beez’s hand had vacated and pulled the shirt out and away from the curves of their neck, revealing the slope of their back, and the rest of the tattoo. She stared a long moment, knowing that her soft “Oh” would fall almost directly into Beez’s ear. Seeing them twitch a little, she drew her nails down their back just a little further, revealing the last of the hidden tattoo. 

She said, “It’s impressive.”

Beez snorted as Angela continued to examine the artistic rendering of the full life cycle of the housefly. Somehow it managed to look more beautiful than repulsive, even the pupa, ridged and seeming to wriggle as Beez’s back muscles shifted. 

“‘Impressive’ is what people say when they see art they don’t like,” said Beez. 

“It’s also beautiful,” said Angela. On impulse, she let her thumb slide across one of the wings, the pattern of dark and light evoking iridescence even impressed into Beez’s skin. She felt their shoulders move in response, wondered if their anxious shift in their seat meant what she hoped. She let the collar fall back into position, and, though unnecessary, ran her fingers along the fabric until it lay flat and smooth. 

Beez’s shiver that time was undeniable. Angela commented, leaning into the game, "Oh? It is a bit chilly in the hotel."

“Yeah, it is, yeah.” Beez gave a laugh and pulled their blazer shut, fastening a couple of buttons with quick little fingers. It almost seemed like a rebuff, except then they moved their hand to the bartop, closer than propriety dictated to where Angela held the stem of her wine glass. Their short nails drummed as they kept talking. “I met the guy who designed it in college. We studied biology, spent a summer together working in a fly lab. Great artist, drew tats for half the school. Shit person. Sold his soul to Big Pharma when he graduated.”

“And we all know pharmaceutical companies are run by the actual devil,” said Angela lightly, her attention focused on the restless movement of Beez’s hand. It felt like an invitation, or a proposition. _You touched me. Let me touch you._ Their forefinger drew along the grain of the wood, eventually arriving at their own glass, where it traced patterns in the condensation.

Beez followed the line of Angela’s gaze, mirrored it. With a nod in the direction of her hands, they asked, "Is that a professional conceit or a personal style, keeping them so short?"

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Angela arched one eyebrow, her words a rebuke but her tone an invitation. _Why do you ask? Want to make it your business?_

“Oh, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to be nosy, Doctor Hypocrisy.” Beez rolled their eyes and swiped a second mozzarella stick.

With another laugh bubbling out of her, Angela felt loose and relaxed for the first time that day. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the way Beez had made her chuckle along with their own laughter, wicked and brash, about the painfully repetitive conference schedule, about the earnest note-takers and that one older gentleman who kept sitting in the front row and falling asleep. Angela’s hands itched to touch Beez again. She found herself wishing that they had more visible tattoos, more excuses to reach over and brush her fingertips along their warm little neck, maybe see them shiver again. 

She wanted, suddenly and acutely, to be somewhere private. Somewhere sans prying eyes, somewhere she could shed more than just her jacket, kick her shoes off, sit facing Beez to see every shift of their glinting eyes. 

Well, why not? Beez was obviously interested in her. Since Angela had examined their tattoo, they’d stayed closer than before, leaning in even when they said something acerbic. They hadn’t yawned with a meaningful glance at their phone, hadn’t made any comments about how the bar was emptying out around them. Hadn’t even suggested they decamp to one of the now-open tables to spread out. And it wasn’t as if Beez was a coworker, with all the fraught possibilities attendant on a workplace hookup. They were only a colleague in the field.

So there was no good reason for the quiver in Angela’s belly when she cleared her throat and said, “Bar’s closing pretty soon. Let’s take this conversation somewhere else.”

And there was no reason at all for her heart to beat faster waiting for the answer, while Beez’s face migrated from shock to pleasure and back again. 

But why _should_ Beez be shocked? It hadn’t been _that_ long since Angela had picked someone up. She couldn’t be misreading the signs, could she? And then she understood. 

"What? Did you think I was just playing with you?" She heard the disdain in her own words, the edge of discomfort, and resented it. 

"To be honest, I thought _I_ was playing with _you_ ," said Beez quietly.

Angela scoffed, “Of course you assumed that.”

Beez looked uneasy for the first time since Angela had met them that day, gaze sliding away from Angela’s and back, before shrugging. As if that explained anything. 

Well. It wasn’t the first time Angela had dealt with this. She wanted Beez, she knew that. If they didn’t feel the same, that was their loss. Angela knew her own value. “The offer stands.”

Beez licked their lips and asked, “Did you have somewhere in mind?”

“Well, my room’s on the sixteenth floor,” said Angela. She slid off the stool and smiled as Beez did the same. “If you’re not afraid of heights.”

Beez glared up at her, the size difference between them obvious now that they stood so close. “ _If I’m not afraid of heights_. Fuck every too-tall inch of you. Let’s go.”

Angela stepped out toward the elevators, letting her long legs carry her ahead of Beez. She pushed the call button before the midwife arrived at her side. 

"Impatient?" they teased.

"Nervous?" Angela shot back.

Beez snorted. "Sure."

Angela’s momentary relief to find the elevator empty evaporated when she realized she would be alone in a three by three foot space with Beez--and that at the end of the ride was Angela’s hotel room. Sure, she knew what she was doing, had never given anyone cause to complain. But Beez had wormed their way under Angela’s skin more quickly that she’d expected, and it made her heart stammer to think about their tattoo, properly exposed, about dragging her fingers beyond its black-marked edges, down the curve of Beez’s spine. And lower. 

“. . . can’t believe it. Can you?” 

_Shit._ Angela wasn’t a daydreamer by nature, but the long day, a couple glasses of wine, and one very appealing, very snarky person in close proximity had been too much for her. She did what any doctor learned to do in med school when nearly caught not paying attention. 

She agreed. “Fuck, no. It’s ridiculous.”

Beez looked up and over at her, wrinkling their brow. “Really? I would have thought that you--”

And then, as if God were smiling on Angela, the elevator doors dinged open to reveal a cluster of young people, absolutely reeking of cigarettes and beer and . . . was that weed? As the raucous group pushed into the elevator, Angela and Beez moved closer to each other, nearly touching. 

One woman held the doors open and hollered, “Binali! Hurry up!” and another woman pressed in, heels danging from her wrist. Everyone shifted, and in the readjustment, Angela felt her hand brush against Beez’s. 

It was the briefest contact, but it sent a charge through her. Kids these days, they got up to all kinds of things--but Angela vividly recalled a time when PDA with many of her partners was a risk not worth taking. The subtle touch of their hands, even though it hadn’t been on purpose, was still a thrill, and the electric feeling of standing so close to Beez’s small form made Angela feel like the elevator ride would never end. 

She wasn’t wholly sure that she wanted it to, except what might happen in the hotel room held a lot more appeal than being wedged in here watching two of these . . . god, were they teenagers? Why did everyone under thirty look like they were too young to drive? Anyway, whatever happened in the hotel room held more appeal than watching two of these impossibly young adults attempt to examine each other’s tonsils. Ah. And each other’s buttocks. And . . . other things. _Charming._

Angela’s next thought was cut off by the feeling of Beez’s fingers trailing over her knuckles. She sucked in a breath of surprise. One of the women glanced up at her, then said with exasperation, “Pete, Jenny. You disgust me. Can’t you wait five fucking minutes? These ladies don’t need to see that shit.”

Angela felt Beez stiffen and their hand fell away from hers. Angela opened her mouth, finding it dry, cleared her throat to speak--and Beez’s heel came down--hard but not quite painful, on Angela’s toe. Fortunately the lip-locked couple disengaged and started talking shit to their friend loudly enough that the undignified sound Angela made was swallowed up in a chorus of curses and imprecations. 

And then, _finally_ , the doors opened at Angela’s floor. 

Beez elbowed their way forward without so much as an “excuse me,” and Angela followed in their wake. As soon as she passed the threshold, she turned, held her palm against the doors for a moment, and said with disdain, “ _Ladies_? I would have expected young people like you to know better than to make assumptions about gender.” She waved as the doors closed. 

Beez, several steps away, jeered, “Just had to open your big mouth.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Beez grumbled, but Angela didn’t think they were doing a very good job of sounding irritated. She started walking towards her room. Ungracious, maybe, not to say anything or to wait for Beez to catch up, but Beez was bright. They could sort it out and follow her. Angela said, “What I still don’t know is why they thought you were an adult at all.”

Beez laughed, warmer than Angela had expected. “Are you serious? More short jokes? Fuck you.”

Pleasure bloomed in Angela to hear them laugh like that, in spite of themself, at something Angela had said. It wasn’t the first time that night, but she had a feeling that she wouldn’t tire of it any time soon. 

At her room, Angela held the door open for Beez. She half-expected some snide remark on the chivalry of the gesture, but they simply swept past her and claimed the room’s only chair like an entitled little prince. Angela couldn’t help smiling as she set down her bag and asked, “Would you like some water?”

“Yeah, sure.” Beez kicked off their shoes. One landed next to the chair, the other halfway across the room, and they looked so satisfied that Angela guessed they’d done it on purpose. Like they were marking their territory, she thought. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.

“You really have no manners, do you?” Angela said mildly, handing them a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. She took another for herself and settled on the edge of the bed, facing them.

“Manners are a load of repressive bullshit,” said Beez. They drank, then gestured with the bottle. “Manners are what made the moderator in this morning’s panel smile at the idiot in the front row with ‘more of a statement than question, really’ instead of shutting him the fuck up.”

Angela winced at the memory. “If we have a crap moderator tomorrow, I promise I will take over handling questions.”

“Not if I get there first,” Beez shot back, peeling their socks off. At first Angela had thought they were black with yellow polka dots, but as she looked more closely now, she saw that the dots were bees.

“Those are sweet,” she said with a smile. She meant the socks, of course, but there was no reason she couldn’t admire Beez’s feet, too, the wiggle of their toes and the shape of each ankle as it disappeared into their jeans.

“Shut up,” snorted Beez. They leaned forward to shrug off their blazer and tossed it over the arm of the chair. Then they groaned. “I _still_ can’t believe you’re on that panel.”

“I can’t believe _you’re_ on it,” Angela shot back, annoyed all over again. “You’ve got no business working with high-risk patients.”

“What an incredibly fucking ignorant thing to say. Not least because of the way industrialized medicine calculates risk, with shit like bumping it up due to maternal BMI even in the absence of gestational diabetes, when there’s no evidence for it whatsoever.”

Angela definitely could have thought of something to say to that, except that Beez had continued to undress while they were talking, which meant they were now _taking their shirt off_. Just casually lifting the dark silk over their head, leaving them in nothing but a simple black sports bra. They were built spare and slim. Angela thought she could just about cover all the pale skin of their stomach with one hand. The smooth lines of their arms and the curve of their shoulders drew her eye, and . . . what had they been arguing about?

She felt Beez’s eyes on her, drinking in every detail of her reaction. Angela decided she’d had enough of that.

She stood up and crossed to their chair. Resting a hand on the back, just past Beez’s shoulder, not quite touching, she leaned over them. “I thought I made it clear that I don’t like to be played with.”

Beez looked up at her and answered with perfect calm, “What makes you think I’m playing?”


	2. Chapter 2

Beez felt the muscles in their stomach tense as Angela stood over them, her hair falling softly forward. Beez still wanted to tangle it. They wanted to undo not just Angela’s slacks but all of her, to see her wrecked and panting, hair mussed into a flyaway halo. 

Staring right into their eyes, Angela purred a challenge. “If you’re not playing, then prove it.”

Beez pushed up from the chair with one hand and used the other to draw Angela down by the back of her neck. They kissed her and _fuck_ , those lips were as plush and yielding as they’d looked. Beez couldn’t help the low, small sound that fell out of them as Angela’s lips parted gently in the wake of their tongue. They felt their heart beating harder in their throat, and leaned up and in . . . until Angela’s lips were gone, the drape of her hair no longer tickling their exposed shoulders. Beez flopped back into the chair and complained, “Hey, what--”

“I’m too old to lean over like this when there’s a perfectly good bed.” Angela waved a hand behind her, but stayed where she was, looming over Beez, looking for confirmation. 

“Too old? Oh, so _now_ you admit it.”

Angela said, “Fuck you,” but without any real bite.

“Oh, we’ll get to that,” said Beez, rising and using their body to crowd the taller woman against the bed, pressing the line of their thigh between Angela’s and pulling a gasp out of her. She wrapped fingers in the hair at the nape of Beez’s neck, directing them into another kiss, this one deeper, hungrier, led by Angela’s grip, by her teeth and tongue. 

Beez wanted more of her--her warmth and strength and the texture of her skin. They sloughed Angela’s jacket off of her shoulders, teased her silk blouse loose from her waistband. Apparently delicate, Beez knew the softness of silk had no bearing on its strength, knew the insects which had produced the thread were protecting themselves from a threatening world. 

Beez wanted to see Angela without it. They gave the hem a sharp tug, a call to attention. 

Angela breathed “Yes” into Beez’s mouth before pulling back and lifting the blouse. It flowed off her arms, smooth and feather-light, then melted onto the coverlet.

Beez saw what fell glittering and gold between Angela’s breasts and jerked away as if burned. “Shit. A cross?”

“Is something wrong with that?” asked Angela, her voice husky and liquid, just like Beez had hoped it would be.

But they couldn’t properly appreciate it now. “After everything those people have done to us?”

Angela’s face lost the soft yearning that had colored over her insufferable superiority. “Excuse me? ‘Those people?’ ‘Us?’”

Beez felt a cold sinking in their belly, familiar from all the times their mouth had plunged them into an unintended argument. They managed to look contrite and mutter, “Shit, I’m--” before Angela cut in.

“Like it or not, I’m ‘those people.’ _And_ ‘us.’”

Beez said, “Right. Sorry.” 

Angela cocked her head to the side, reaching out to grasp Beez’s hips and pull them close against her again. Beez’s thigh pressed against Angela, the heat of her cunt noticeable through the thin, draping fabric of her slacks. She bent, voice brushing against their ear. “Well, I’m taught to forgive, so…”

 _What a sanctimonious prick._ Beez huffed out a laugh, broken off as Angela drew them back into the kiss, her hands tracing over their back, their shoulders, the slope of their neck. They placed their own hands on Angela’s sides, warm under their fingertips, warmer than they’d expected after having felt the cool silk under their palms.

It made Beez soften in return, as if they’d both shucked not just blouses but armor, as if they both could step away from the battles they’d been fighting and simply exist, yielding to their rising desire.

Beez caught Angela’s lower lip in their teeth and felt her shiver against them, felt her fingers tighten at the back of their neck. Her other hand spread across Beez’s lower back, insistent, pressing them closer. Beez made a hungry sound. They pushed their thigh up harder between Angela’s, grinding into the heat of her.

Angela gasped and her head fell forward, hair spilling across Beez’s face. It smelled like lilies, no doubt from some ludicrously expensive shampoo. Beez slid their fingers into the thick brown curtain to push it away from their eyes, and found themself savoring the touch of the silky strands. _God, I love your hair_ , they thought, but what came out of their mouth was, “Your stupid hair’s in my face.”

Lifting her head, Angela drew her fingers from the back of Beez’s head along their jaw to tilt their chin up. She sounded a little breathless but not at all offended, the timbre of her voice still low and warm. “How about your stupid face is in my hair?”

Beez grinned and snapped their teeth, nipping Angela’s thumb. They felt almost giddy. As a rule, people who were interested in Beez fell into one of two categories: they either wanted to fix Beez, file off all their sharp edges, make them more palatable, or they wanted to roll over and let Beez walk all over them. The first type was infuriating, the second barely less so. Angela, miraculously, didn’t seem to fit in either category.

The two of them were still standing next to the bed. Beez pushed--they couldn’t help pushing--but gently, almost pleading, and Angela went back easily onto the mattress, pulling Beez with her.

The transition to lying down would have been simpler if they’d been willing to stop touching each other to get settled, but neither could manage. Angela had one arm around Beez’s waist and the other hand sliding down the back of their jeans, while Beez had discovered that the cream-colored lace on Angela’s bra wasn’t nearly as scratchy as they’d expected-- _fucking money solves everything_ , they thought, but couldn’t summon any bitterness when it felt so delicious to fit their hands around Angela’s soft breasts and rub their thumbs over her nipples through the lace, drawing low moans from her throat.

All this touching led to an awkward tangle of limbs and pillows. When Beez went to kiss Angela, because they needed to taste her again, needed to feel her tongue slide against theirs, they moved too fast and got a mouthful of hair instead.

They spat it out, annoyed by the urgency of their desire and by the fact that it had been their own fault. "Goddamnit, your fucking hair's in my mouth again!"

Angela lay back, chuckling, and pulled Beez on top of her. "If you could keep your mouth shut for five minutes, maybe it wouldn't be a problem."

Beez looked down at Angela’s face and saw the humor in her eyes, the strength of her jaw and her soft mouth, lips slightly parted, lipstick smeared from their kisses. Their irritation was swamped by an aching hunger. They buried their head in the side of her neck, breathing in the blend of lilies, sweat, and hotel sheets. They licked down to the base of her throat, pressed their mouth against her pulse, and murmured, “But if I kept my mouth shut, Angela, I couldn’t do this.”

When Beez sucked, they felt Angela’s hands tighten. And when they pulled the skin between their teeth, they felt her whole body quiver under them. “Ah! Don’t--”

Beez raised their head at once. Were they reading her wrong? She’d seemed to like teeth before. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t--leave a mark,” Angela gasped, and Beez grinned. They slid lower, pressing a kiss to the top of one breast.

“You mean you don’t want to have to wear a scarf tomorrow?” They dragged their tongue to the hollow between her breasts, just above the lace of her bra, and whispered, “What about where no one can see it? What about here, where just you and I will know?”

“That’s…” Angela’s voice hitched, fingers digging into Beez’s back. “That’s okay.”

Beez could see Angela’s nipples, dark and taut beneath the lace, and wanted to bite them. But first they bit down on the swell of one breast, just hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to make Angela arch her back and push up against their mouth, to pull a gasp from her lips. “Oh, I think it’s more than okay,” Beez whispered into her skin.

They worked one hand under Angela to unhook her bra, and then there was another brief tangle as Beez tried to pull the straps down Angela’s arms while Angela tried to take off her glasses and set them on the bedside table. Finally they’d gotten rid of the offending items, and Beez could bury their face in those glorious soft curves.

They hadn’t imagined Angela would feel this pliant beneath them, this yielding. They’d half expected to keep sparring and dueling their way through the bedroom. But the doctor’s demeanor was unguarded, her moans breathy and open, her fingers eager as they slid through Beez’s short hair and pulled their head closer.

Beez licked the bruise they’d left, then turned their head to leave a matching mark on the other breast. This time Angela’s hips jerked, and jerked again as Beez took her nipple into their mouth to tease with teeth and tongue.

“Beez,” said Angela. The hand that wasn’t buried in their hair scratched lightly over their shoulder. “ _Beez._ ”

The sound of their own name spoken with such raw desire was intoxicating. Angela wanted them. She wasn’t trying to hide it, or humoring them, or pretending Beez was something other than they were. She _wanted_ them. Beez shimmied lower, kissing down Angela’s stomach. Her skin was so soft, so warm. They couldn’t get enough of it. She smelled ridiculously good, like a sexy garden.

They heard a breathless laugh, and wondered if they’d said that last part out loud. “Come back up here,” whispered Angela.

So Beez did, leaving kisses on all the skin they could reach, grazing their teeth here and there for the pleasure of Angela’s shivers. When they reached the small golden cross on its fine chain, they raised their head to lock eyes with Angela, stuck out their tongue, and gave it a long, slow, filthy lick.

“You--you _demon_ ,” spluttered Angela, lighting up with shocked laughter.

Beez grinned and slid their knee into her crotch, pressing up into that delicious heat. Angela’s laughter faded into a moan as she ground down. “Yes,” hissed Beez, and “More,” cried Angela, rocking her hips as she drew Beez into a kiss.

Beez felt Angela’s demand ring through them and resonate with their own ache for more: for more of Angela’s skin, more of the smell of her rising even through her trousers, for the chance to feel the heat of the hair clustered at the crux of her thighs. They drew back from the kiss, their teeth tugging regretfully on Angela’s lower lip, so they could focus on unfastening her slacks.

Tempted to tear them right off, Beez paused with their fingers on the waistband. Angela was pushing hard against their knee, chasing pressure, her breasts rising and falling with quick breaths. Her hand reached down to cover Beez’s as she asked impatiently, “Do you need help with those?”

“Just taking my time.” They pushed her hand away and slipped the hooks free, carefully unfastened the button, toyed with the zipper. They weren’t used to taking their time in bed, weren’t used to _wanting_ to. But they were finding that the vision of Angela coming undone was something they wanted to savor as long as possible.

When Beez moved their knee away so they could unzip her slacks and begin to tug them down, Angela made a noise of protest. “Can’t give you _more_ without getting rid of these,” drawled Beez, sliding the fabric over her hips, exposing the matching cream-colored lace underwear that they’d expected. They breathed in the smell of her cunt, sharper now, and thought of sliding a finger under the lace to feel how wet she was. But then they glanced up at Angela’s face and, seeing how much she wanted that, decided to wait a little longer.

The slacks slipped easily down Angela’s long legs, and so did Beez’s hands, stroking her generous thighs and the curve of each calf. They peeled her stockings off and rubbed their thumb over the smooth bone on the inside of her ankle, thinking, _This is where someone nicer would say something_. Something about the strength and softness of her body, about how much Beez liked the warmth of her flushed skin and the beautiful sounds she made as they touched her.

Their fingers slid back up to hook under the band of her underwear. “Look at you,” they said, tugging the last of Angela’s clothing off and tossing the soaked fabric to the floor. “You’re a fucking mess.”

"Mm.” She raised one pretty eyebrow. “And whose fault is it that you're still so put together?" 

"Well, it's certainly not mine. I took my socks off myself."

Angela, rising up and inadvertently pressing into Beez’s knee, sucked in a breath before saying, "And such adorable socks, too. Let me help you with the rest."

Beez shrugged the offer away, with a feeling that their attempt at nonchalance wasn't entirely successful. Sure, Angela seemed to want them, but that didn’t mean they wanted to strip off all their remaining armor just yet, or let Angela do it.

Angela must have seen the hesitation play across Beez’s face, because she lay back down and changed tack. "Suit yourself. But when do I get the rest of that show?" There it was again, that open, unapologetically hungry look.

Beez ran a thumb consideringly over one of Angela’s nipples, feeling the skin tighten around the nub. "So sensitive," they teased.

It was a blatant redirection, but Angela only laughed. "Oh, now I'm sensitive? Not the heartless Dr. Gabriel from earlier tod--ahh!" She ended on a gasp as Beez tweaked the nipple hard. They lost no time replacing fingers with teeth, their eyes closing as they bit down on the rosy, puckered skin, then sucked fiercely, Angela’s whimpers egging them on. 

Until Beez felt a soft hand come to tug at their waistband, and pulled away, their own breaths losing rhythm. 

"Beez," said Angela, pleading. "I want to see you. All of you."

Beez nodded, unexpectedly lost for words. Sitting back on their heels on the bed, they hooked their fingers under the band of their bra and tugged it over their head, aiming for the same brash carelessness they’d used while sprawled in the chair across from Angela. But that had been easy, more an act of aggression than intimacy. They’d wanted to provoke Angela, see what she’d do.

Now they had to meet her eyes as they bared their chest, already knowing how her lips felt against theirs, already knowing the taste and scent of her skin. They had to meet her eyes, because they weren’t such a coward as to look away--but they wanted to.

Filling their gaze with those long smooth legs and the rise of her belly, the wet hair at the crux of her thighs and the swollen lips of her cunt, would have been easier than looking at Angela’s face to see something like wonder, something like awe, play across her features as she took in Beez’s naked torso.

“You’re wonderful,” she breathed, reaching for them again. Her warm hands skimmed over their arms and shoulders, fingers light as feathers as they traced the shape of Beez’s breasts. Beez had never been especially impressed with their own breasts, small and rather shapeless. They’d never had a lover touch them like this. With desire, sure, with affection, even, yes--but never with _reverence_.

Beez leaned into it, surprised by the moan that escaped them when Angela’s fingers circled their nipples. Her wide eyes kept flicking between Beez’s chest and their face, as though trying to decide which sight was more arousing. Beez couldn’t remember the last time they’d felt such focused attention. They wanted it to stop. They needed it not to.

Without full consciousness of the act, they’d already unfastened their jeans and started to shove them down, clumsy and inelegant. They nearly tangled their own legs. Rolling away to shake off the offending garment caused Angela’s fingers to tug harder on their nipple than Beez thought she'd intended, and another unexpected moan slipped from their mouth.

"Ohh, look who's sensitive now?" purred Angela.

Beez hadn’t regained their balance yet when Angela, in one fluid motion, wrapped an arm around Beez’s back and her lips around their nipple. Before Beez’s eyes fell shut, they glimpsed Angela’s dark hair trailing sleekly behind her, and wondered what would happen if they tugged on it. 

“Fuck,” breathed Beez, their stomach twisting as Angela easily shifted both of their bodies into a new position. They’d known she was tall, and strong, but hadn’t expected to find themself suddenly sitting in her lap through no effort of their own. “Angela--” they started, not even sure whether it was protest or encouragement.

She cut Beez off with a hungry kiss and gripped their bottom, lifting them so it was the easiest thing in the world to wrap their legs around her waist, to slide their hands into her hair. Beez tried to deepen the kiss, but Angela was already moving her lips down the line of their jaw, scraping her teeth over their pulse point.

“Fuck!” gasped Beez again, who liked to think they were usually more articulate in bed.

“Thought you’d like that,” chuckled Angela, her voice low and rough as she bit again, just over Beez’s collarbone. “Toothy little thing.”

Her hands slid to Beez’s thighs and she looked down for the first time at their only other sizeable tattoo, wrapped around their left leg from knee to hip. “This one is very pretty, too,” she said more softly. Her nails traced the leaves and stems, pressing into the flower petals.

“They’re poisonous, not pretty,” said Beez, made irritable by the hot ache of their cunt and the fact that Angela was ignoring it to pet their legs instead. “That’s digitalis, monkshood--”

“And henbane, and belladonna,” finished Angela, fingers landing with unerring accuracy on the plants as she named them. “Poisonous. And medicinal.” She looked up with a smile that made Beez’s stomach clench. “ _And_ pretty.”

Beez gripped her shoulders and shifted restlessly against her. “Angela, are you just going to rub my thighs all night?”

“Mm, you’re every bit as impatient as you seemed when we first met.” Angela’s touch crept infinitesimally higher, toward their hip bones.

“I wasn’t impatient, I was _mad_.”

“Of course. You wanted to start a fight in the middle of the hall.” Angela smiled and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on their lips. “At least, that’s what it seemed like. It took me a while to work out that what you really wanted was this.”

Without warning Angela’s hand covered their cunt, pressing firmly against the overheated skin. Beez could think of nothing clever to say. They could only kiss Angela, hard and hungry, pushing their tongue into her mouth as they ground eagerly against the heel of her hand. Pleasure rippled through their body, but hardly assuaged their ravenous hunger.

“Keep going,” they muttered against Angela’s lips, and her hand rubbed them harder, faster, her fingers slipping between their folds. Beez dug their fingers into her shoulders. “Come on, Angela, fuck me."

“See? Impatient.” But Angela’s voice was strung out with her own desire. She stroked one fingertip around their entrance, and, before Beez could complain about the tease, pushed inside.

“Oh fuck,” moaned Beez. A flare of heat licked up their spine, burned down their thighs. It felt better than it had any right to, such a simple thing. One of Angela’s hands held their lower back as the other spread their cunt, her breath warm on their face.

“How do you like it?” Angela whispered against their cheek. She curled her finger, pulling another moan from Beez’s mouth. “You’ve been waiting for this all day. I want to make it good.”

There it was again, that intense focus, like Beez’s pleasure was the only thing that mattered in this moment. They felt pinned, almost trapped, and they squirmed a bit to make sure they could still move. “Two fingers, and fucking get on with it,” they instructed.

Angela laughed, actually dared to laugh, as she worked a second finger in alongside the first. “I don’t know why I expected you to have any more manners without your clothes on.” 

“Because you’re an idiot.” Beez locked their ankles at Angela’s back and anchored their hands in her hair. They bit at her lips, her jaw, licked down the side of her neck to taste the sweat gathering there. A shiver ran through their whole body as Angela began to slide her fingers in and out, curving them experimentally.

“Careful with the insults,” Angela said, though there was still laughter in her voice. “You don’t want to bite the hand that fucks you.”

“You’d love it--if I did.” Beez’s voice had grown rough and they were losing the thread of the argument. They pushed back against Angela. “Yes, like that, fuck _yes_.”

The encouragement was hardly needed. Angela had found an angle that made Beez cry out with every thrust. Her other hand held steady on their lower back as she fucked them, harder than Beez had expected, not yet as hard as they wanted. They tightened a fist in her hair and tried to kiss her, but ended up moaning shamelessly into her mouth.

“Go on,” Angela murmured against their lips. “Go on, I want to hear what I’m doing to you.”

She picked up the pace, driving into Beez until they felt they might burst out of their skin with the urgency of their need. “Fuck, Angela, fuck,” they gasped, shuddering on the precipice. Angela pressed in one more time, twisting her fingers, and Beez was lost.

They cried out and threw their head back, letting their body buck and shake against Angela, who pressed her face to their throat, sucking on the tender skin. As they collapsed in her lap, both of them breathing hard, she wrapped her arms around them. 

“That was gorgeous,” she said softly, and Beez’s skin prickled. It didn’t make any sense for Angela to talk like that, as if Beez’s orgasm had been a gift for her. They tried to think of something to say. They were about to settle on _shut up_ when Angela added with a chuckle, “I had no idea someone so small could be so loud.”

So that’s what it was. The smug doctor was pleased with herself that she’d gotten Beez to holler. Beez climbed up on their knees and pushed her back on the bed, maybe a little harder than necessary, but Angela went down willingly enough, her face open and curious.

“Oh yeah? Well, _you_ look like you couldn't be quiet if you had to.” Beez knelt over her and ran a hand down her center, between her breasts, over her belly. They kept their eyes fixed on hers, watching for her reaction.

Angela managed a laugh, but it wasn’t the sarcastic one that Beez thought she was aiming for. It was a breathy, panting sound that emerged as their hand tickled the hair over her cunt. 

“Bet you'll wake the neighbors,” said Beez, letting a slow grin spread across their face. "Let's find out."

They slid down, back, between Angela’s thighs, glancing at her face in between taking in how slick and messy her cunt was, how pink and glistening. They parted her wet curls and stroked one finger lightly up and down her folds.

“What happened to _fucking get on with it_?” complained Angela.

Beez smirked. “I never promised to play fair.” They moved two fingertips all around her clit, increasing the pressure slightly and then backing off, a deliberate tease.

Angela’s thighs were quivering, her words falling out on sharp short breaths. “I thought--you weren’t playing--at all.”

“Oh, you only accused me of playing because you didn’t like that game. This--” said with a confident slide of their fingers to press hard along Angela’s clit, “--is a different game entirely.” _Fuck_ , she was just so wet, Beez couldn’t help but slide their finger inside her cunt, drawing even more wetness back out, along with an aching whine. Beez wondered how many more of those sounds they could pull out. 

They worked up to a couple of fingers, experimental strokes inside, seeking places that would shake Dr. Gabriel’s façade apart even further. Or that’s what they _were_ doing, until the press and buck of Angela’s hips threatened to push them right off the edge of the bed. "Fuck, I'm going to fall off if you keep moving like that.”

“You--” Angela sucked in a breath, gasped out “--shouldn’t do things like . . . like that if you don’t want me to--ah!” 

While objecting, Angela had scooted back on the bed, and Beez had decided that they liked her wordless pleas rather more than her breathless attempt at biting humor. They dragged the pads of two fingers together across the bundle of nerves inside Angela’s cunt, hard, with a hand pressing down just above her curls, and Angela’s back arched off the bed as she groaned, long and low. _There it is,_ Beez could tell, and silently they willed Angela to let go. 

She did, easily, falling over that precipice more than once, spasming around Beez’ slick fingers. Beez slipped out of Angela’s cunt to tease again, making light, gentle, entirely inadequate strokes of all the places they now knew turned her inside out. 

Angela loosed a whine, not for the first time, and she held up a hand after an abortive attempt to speak. 

Beez paused, bemused, but willing to take a moment to stretch their hand. Angela’s cunt was fucking strong. It had them wondering what other parts of Angela might be so strong. “Yes?” they asked, feeling some kind of hysterical joy bubble up within them. 

“Please. _Please._ ”

“Please? You had me stop, so you could what? Beg me to keep going?”

“Please don’t . . . don’t t-tease, I’m. I’m just. Fuck, _please._ ”

When Angela’s voice broke again over the word “please,” desperate and aching, Beez felt as if the sound lodged somewhere in their chest and they couldn’t summon a single snappy comeback. They didn’t even want to. What they wanted was to hear more of that. A lot more of that. 

“Okay,” said Beez, pushing one hand against Angela’s thigh to open her wider. They stared hungrily at her dripping cunt and pressed two fingers back in, quick and deep, reveling in Angela’s quiet moan of satisfaction. They pulled out just enough to stroke that tender spot inside her. Her leg trembled under their hand. Fuck, was she that close again already?

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Angela,” they murmured, rubbing more firmly now, bringing the fingers of their other hand toward her clit. They’d barely touched it before her hips were lifting off the bed again with a muffled cry, her cunt pulsing.

Delighted, Beez looked up at her face, only to see Angela covering it with her hands. “Stop that,” they snapped, punctuating the instruction with a shove of their fingers deeper inside her. “Let me see you.”

And Angela dropped her hands without a protest, gripping and twisting the sheets instead. Her cheeks were bright with color, her once-perfect hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. “Please,” she whispered, one more time, and Beez almost said aloud, _You don’t have to ask._

They slipped their fingers out of Angela’s cunt but kept their hand over it, grounding her, as they crawled up her body to press their face to her breasts again. The pair of marks they’d left were beautifully purple now. They couldn’t help covering the bruises with kisses. Angela whimpered and brought one hand to the back of their head, urging them toward her nipple. 

They licked around her areola. Her hips quivered and Beez pushed down harder with the hand between her thighs, aiming over Angela’s clit so she could rub against it. Then they went to work on her nipple, closing their lips around the tight pink skin, grazing it with their teeth. Angela’s hips rocked faster and Beez matched her movement. They bit down hard, then soothed the bite with their tongue, and Angela’s sobbing cries filled their ears as she came again.

The hand that covered her cunt was suddenly wet, _much_ wetter than before. Beez pulled back in surprise, glancing down to see how Angela had soaked both their hand and the sheets beneath her. They looked back to her face just in time to see a flash of real anxiety.

Beez brought their dripping fingers up to trace over Angela’s lips with her own slick. “You're going to do that again,” they said, voice thick and low, then rolled off the bed and ran to the bathroom for a towel.

Back on the bed, they slid the folded fabric under Angela’s bottom, trying to suppress the tremor in their own hands, desperate to be back inside her. Two fingers slipped in like they belonged nowhere else, and Angela’s welcoming moan sent a shiver down Beez’s spine.

They brought their palm down on her belly, just above her mons. She somehow managed to push up on her elbows, gazing down at Beez with a momentary bemusement. "What are you going to do, palpate--ahh! me? Ahh!"

Beez pressed down with their palm just as they carefully curved their fingers inside her, and she came again, whimpered their name. Beez grinned. The towel was already drenched. "Fuck, you're so wet, Ang. You . . . you're _sloppy,_ you're so wet. I'd have never believed someone so uptight looking could be . . ." They were too lost in the wonder of it to finish the sentence, could only twist their fingers and pull another moan out of Angela.

“M’not,” she slurred, even as her cunt clenched and dripped around Beez’s fingers.

“Not what?”

“M’not up--uptight.” She’d fallen off her elbows and lay flat on her back, breasts heaving with jerky breaths.

“Not _anymore_.” Feeling how Angela trembled under them, Beez suspected she might enjoy some teasing, despite her earlier objections. “Fuck, you want it so bad, don’t you? Buttoned up all day, just dying for someone to touch your cunt.”

“ _Beez_ ,” groaned Angela, and they reveled in the deepening blush on her cheeks, the way her hands flung over her head to brace against the wall as she fucked herself on Beez’s fingers.

They rubbed her thigh, trying to slow her down. “Angela, hang on. We should get some lube if we’re going to keep going.”

She let out a wordless whine when Beez pulled out entirely. “You’ll want it tomorrow even if you don’t right now,” insisted the midwife, heading for the bathroom again.

“In my--it’s in my bag. On the counter,” Angela called after them. And there it was, nestled under her makeup, a half-used tube carefully rolled from the bottom.

Beez chuckled a little, impressed with both Angela’s forethought and taste, and returned to their place on the bed, kneeling between the doctor’s legs. Her breathing had slowed considerably, and she smiled at Beez through half-closed eyes, watching them squeeze lube into the palm of their hand.

“Not falling asleep on me, are you?” they asked.

Angela’s eyes narrowed. “I swear, if you don’t shut up and start fucking me again this second--”

Beez cut her off with a firm press of three well-slicked fingertips at her entrance. “Leave you empty for half a minute and you get all mouthy again,” they growled, pushing slowly deeper. Angela squirmed under them. They grabbed her hip with their free hand to keep her still. “You just need to be filled right up, don’t you?”

Clearly, she did, because Beez barely curled their fingers inside her several times before her moans deepened again. Beez was torn between jealousy and pride as, three fingers buried in Angela’s cunt, they felt her climax for what had to be the . . . was it the fifth time? They cursed softly under their breath as their fingers were squeezed together. 

“Shit, Angela,” Beez muttered, feeling her walls flutter and relax around their hand. They thought they could even slip a fourth finger inside if they just rotated a little…

Angela moaned, deep and full-throated, nearly a groan of pleasure, and her hips pressed forward, nudging Beez’s hand even deeper. Beez realized their foot was falling asleep where it was crossed under the other, and tried to shift their position to release it. They hadn’t even noticed until it got truly uncomfortable.

They said, “Hey Angela, hey.”

The voice which answered wasn’t like Dr. Angela-Fucking-Gabriel’s public voice at all. It had a thin, breathy quality. “Y-yes?”

“Fuck. I think--” Beez took in their own ragged breath, “--I think I can fit--fuck. Do you want more?”

Angela’s back arched a little and she moaned, “More?”

“Yeah, like . . . more fingers or, or . . . fuck.” Beez’s voice dropped into a quiet, almost wondering register. “I think I could fit my whole hand. Do you. Uh.” Beez had to swallow past their unexpected swell of tenderness. “Do you want that?”

Angela croaked, “More?”

“Yes, more,” whispered Beez. “Do you want more?”

“Please,” whimpered Angela, and Beez’s insides lit up. They definitely hadn’t imagined this morning, when Angela had looked down her nose over her perfectly polished glasses and snapped at Beez, that she’d end up begging them for this. 

Beez carefully shifted their hand, just barely outside Angela’s cunt, curled and shaped it into the narrowest form they could, thumb cupped inside like a treasure in need of protection. They squeezed lube over it with their free fingers, neatly uncapping and recapping the tube one-handed, before slowly, gently, sliding back in. Hearing, and almost feeling, the low sounds of need and desire edging into discomfort escaping Angela, Beez thought they never could have guessed how it would feel to bring those noises out of her. 

Well, okay, maybe they could have guessed it would feel pretty good to be the reason Angela was coming apart at the seams, but they would have expected it to feel simply powerful. Not like this, not like Angela was voluntarily handing something precious over to them. 

Angela let out a deep, throaty “ohhh,” as Beez twisted their slim hand deftly inside her, coated in slick and lube.

Beez’s memory flashed to other very differently charged moments with their whole hand inside someone’s cunt. Whether sexual or medical, there was always something miraculous about it, and it evoked in Beez a sense of wonder they could never admit aloud.

Angela’s back arched and a moan shifted higher and higher before she broke into an actual sob, her whole body shuddering, making small noises in her throat every time her body rocked around Beez’s hand. 

Beez was entranced, both by the sight of their slender wrist engulfed by Angela’s cunt and by the torn open expression on her face, by her eyes, closed to the world. She clenched hidden muscles around the fist filling her and sobbed again. 

Beez knew pain, knew its sounds and textures and the feeling of it in a room. Angela wasn’t in pain, but she was clearly at the edge of her capacity to tolerate the feelings swamping her. Beez whispered softly, made soothing, shushing noises, kept still and placed a guiding hand on Angela’s hip to slow her movements to the barest shifts of position. 

“There we go, there we are, yes. Shh, Angel- _oh_ ,” they said, crooning her name before choking on the last syllable.

Dr. Gabriel would make a curious angel, knees spread apart, flushed all over, but Beez only knew transcendence through the body and Angela had clearly sunk somewhere deep inside herself, pulled from the mundane world of words and thoughts into the intensity of her experience. 

Beez cursed, “Fuck,” and was answered by a whimper, an arching roll of Angela’s hips, and a gush of wetness around their hand. 

"Beez . . ." Angela's voice was thin, strained.

“Yeah?" Beez barely recognized their own voice.

"Beez?"

"Do you need something?"

Angela just whimpered, her hand scrabbling for Beez before they grasped it with the one that wasn’t inside her. Her hand was shaking. Angela's hand was shaking in their grip, tremors spreading through her whole body.

She was so beautiful like this. Far more beautiful than she was in the immaculate ponytail, the perfectly creased slacks, the glasses that wouldn't dare slip off her nose. No, Beez couldn't imagine that Angela could ever look more beautiful than now: utterly vulnerable, ruined. Literally shaking apart.

They murmured, "Shh, shh, take a deep breath for me, thaat's it . . ." and gently pulled their hand back out while Angela whined in one more helpless release.

They wiped their fingers on the sodden towel even as their other hand clung to Angela’s, not sure which of them needed that connection more, only knowing they couldn’t possibly let go. They climbed up Angela’s body, which was still quaking with aftershocks, and used the hand that had been buried inside her to brush the hair off her sweaty, tear-stained face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m right here, I’m here.” Beez couldn’t stop babbling inane reassurances. This whole night felt so far from their ordinary casual hookups that it might as well be in another galaxy.

“God, Beez. Oh my God.” Angela’s eyes were glassy, her mouth half-open as she sucked in ragged breaths.

Beez pressed themself down on top of Angela, using all their weight to ground her. She finally released their hand, only to wrap her arms around their narrow chest. Her legs came up and around them too, and Beez, who would have expected to feel trapped by such a full-body embrace, relaxed into it.

Angela’s face was tucked against their neck. At first Beez felt only the warmth of her breath, puffing over their collarbone, but then Angela’s lips began to move. She kissed up the curve of their throat, her tongue darting out to taste under their jaw. Beez realized that the shiver they felt now came from their own body.

Beez was suddenly, keenly aware of their cunt pressing against one of Angela's thighs. They had been so focused on her responses, her pleasure, that they hadn't noticed the wet ache inside them. Instinctively, Beez clenched Angela's thigh with their own and gasped when she tensed in response, her sleek muscle gone hard and taut under them.

Beez moaned, and felt an immediate prick of irritation when Angela chuckled, a low, unexpected sound. She rolled her thigh against Beez, who tried to think of something biting to say, some clever defense, but could only moan again and push back.

Angela's hands moved from embracing Beez to grasping their hips, pulling them closer, slick meeting sweat as Beez's body rocked, hunting for more of that bright rising heat, as their clit rubbed against Angela's thigh and then Angela's hand which she'd slipped between them somehow, and . . . _fuck_. Beez didn't count on getting off with someone the first time even once, but they were already so close again, and Angela's fingers had slipped into a V, pressing on either side of Beez's clit, just enough, just right and--

"Oh fuck," they cried out. "Yes, Angela-ahhh!" 

As Beez's body shook, muscles clenching and eyes shut tight, a knock came on the wall over Angela's head: three imperative, irritated raps.

Beez shifted just enough to get a little more comfortable on top of Angela before moaning loudly several times, despite the fact that Angela’s hand had stopped moving and they felt utterly sated. Before Angela could laugh, they scooted up her body and pressed a damp palm to her mouth, whispering "shhh" with a hysterical edge. It was nearly a giggle, though they’d never admit it.

Then they replaced their hand with their mouth, lips already parted, for another kiss, before settling back with a tired sigh. They meant to roll off Angela, but her arms trapped them in place. 

"Where do you think you're going?"

Beez searched for a retort and came up blank. Angela felt warm and solid, and their muscles felt soft, loose, and sort of buzzy. So they just huffed out their breath in a little "hmph."

Angela said, "You're remarkable, you know that?"

"What?" Beez wasn't sure how much longer they'd be awake. They didn't usually fall asleep close to someone, but they were so tired and relaxed and . . . fuck, they couldn't fall asleep on this woman they barely knew. They tried to focus, stretched and wiggled their feet.

"Sleepy?" Angela pressed a kiss to the side of their head. 

"Nah, just. Catching my breath. What were you on about?"

"I was _trying_ to tell you that you're remarkable. But you were definitely not falling asleep on me at the time."

Beez scoffed. "M'not remarkable. Just know my way around a cunt."

Angela hummed, clearly disagreeing but too happy to argue. The hum was a pleasant, self-satisfied sound which resonated through Beez’s chest, making them want to kiss her again, to curl around her while she said things in that low, persuasively reassuring voice and . . . No. Beez had to go. There was no way Angela wanted to wake up with a short, angry little shit like them in her bed in the morning.

Beez hauled themself off Angela. Their muscles protested, and Angela made a small disappointed sound that seemed like she'd given voice to their own body's objections. But Beez ignored all complaints to pad to the bathroom and wash up. They were started by the reflection of their own face: happy, relaxed, and open, despite the discomfort of being dragged away from Angela. 

After that first glance, Beez avoided looking in the mirror.

* * *

Angela watched Beez stumble to the bathroom, where they stuck their head in the sink and drank straight from the tap. _That’s disgusting_ , Angela thought, but couldn’t muster the energy to say it aloud.

Beez seemed just as wrung out as she felt. They didn’t even bother to close the door before using the toilet and washing their hands and face. Angela’s eyes tracked their nude form, blurry at this distance but no less beautiful. 

By the time she returned from her own trip to the bathroom, Beez had pulled on their underwear and was working one sock onto their foot. Angela crawled into bed and pulled up the sheet before her brain caught up with what they were doing.

She didn’t want Beez to leave. Didn’t want this to be just a few hours of fun. She’d thought--she’d been sure Beez felt the same way. Summoning the last of her strength, she pushed up onto one elbow and said, “You don’t have to go, you know?”

Beez stopped fumbling with their sock. They looked up with a sharp intake of breath to meet Angela’s eyes, but they didn’t speak right away. Angela waited, forcing her hands to lay flat and calm on the blankets.

When Beez finally spoke, their voice was a little too light. “Well that’s good, ‘cause I can’t find my other sock.”

Angela laughed, all the tension of the moment draining away. She held up the covers. “Come on, then.”

With one foot bare and the other covered in little yellow bees, the midwife got up and headed toward the bed. Then they paused, frowning. “Wait. I can’t sleep on this side.”

“What does it--oh, fine.” Angela could cut them some slack. She had her own ingrained habits from years of living alone. She shifted position to make room on the other side of the bed, but apparently it wasn’t _enough_ room, because when Beez climbed in, Angela found a pointy elbow jammed into her ribs. “ _Ow_. Excuse you.”

“Do you _need_ to take up that much space.” Beez rolled over grumpily, effectively monopolizing the covers. Angela tugged Beez close so she could access her share of the blanket.

“Your hair’s in my face again,” they muttered.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Angela rolled onto her side and tucked Beez into her arms, pulling their back against her chest. “There. My hair is not in your face. Your knee is not in my kidney."

“Hmmph,” said Beez, but their head butted back into Angela like a cat’s.

Angela chuckled and nuzzled the back of their neck, right over their tattoo. She kissed the delicate lines of the fly’s wings, just because she wanted to. Beez shivered. _Oh, they are sensitive_ , Angela thought in satisfaction, and pressed another kiss a little lower, her tongue flicking out to taste the sweat on Beez’s skin, right over the fly’s bristly legs. Beez made a quiet sound that Angela very much wanted to hear again.

She mused aloud, “Do flies have sex?”

“Course.” Beez snorted. “Don’t you remember anything from general bio? They join at the abdomen and fuck for two hours.”

“I don’t think we covered that in gen bio,” laughed Angela. She imagined Beez pressed against her, belly to belly, legs tangled together. She imagined kissing Beez as they rubbed on each other. “We could try that next time,” she murmured, spreading her hand across their stomach.

She felt the instant tension in their muscles, the way their body stiffened and pulled slightly away. Shit. She’d seen how nervous they had been about staying the night, should have been more careful with her words. “Never mind, I didn’t mean--”

At the same time Beez had started talking, quick and curt. “It just surprised me, you know, didn’t figure Dr. Gabriel would have much time for this sort of thing.”

Angela hated when they used her professional title like an insult. “Whoever this Dr. Gabriel is that you think you know so well, she’s not me.”

Beez didn’t answer right away. Angela felt their pulse kicking under her hand, and she reflected distantly that their abdominal aorta seemed healthy. Then Beez spoke quietly into the dark. “I’m sorry. It’s not about you. I get--well, you see a lot in our line of work. Shitty relationships. You know.”

Angela did know. She thought of the father who’d spent the entire delivery smoking outside, and the one who’d tried to teleconference into the birth room. Then she remembered the young witch and her partner, who had held each other’s hands and breathed calmly through labor even though every electronic monitor on the hall went inexplicably dark as the baby crowned. They’d made such an impression on Angela that she even remembered the name of their baby: Agnes.

“You see some good ones, too,” she said softly.

“Yeah. And I--” Beez cut themself off with a snort that was almost a laugh.

“What?”

“I’d like that,” said Beez, their voice so low Angela almost missed it.

She didn’t understand why it sounded like a confession. “So?”

“Fuck you, never mind.”

Angela sighed and nuzzled their hair. “I’m sorry, I know, I’m thick sometimes. Tell me why it’s bad that you want this.”

“It’s just--” They blew out a frustrated breath. “No reason to be scared of missing out on something you don’t want, that’s all. Whatever. Don’t make it a whole thing.”

They were pushing back into Angela, making it easy for her to hold their body more snugly against hers. She hummed in quiet acceptance, suspecting that she’d just been given a more genuine admission than Beez usually offered their partners. She kissed the top of their head, tucked it under her chin, and let herself drift off.

The first time Angela woke up, it was still dark. She had rolled onto her back, and Beez’s arm and leg were flung on top of her, their face smashed into one breast. It was terribly uncomfortable and extremely pleasant. Angela didn’t want to move, but she had to pee.

She eased out from under the surprisingly heavy deadweight of the sleeping midwife. They shifted and mumbled without opening their eyes, “Izzit mornin.”

“No. I’ll be right back.”

When Angela returned from the bathroom, she saw Beez’s face illuminated by the red glow of the numbers on the hotel clock. For all their banter during the day, Beez had never looked particularly young to her until this moment. Now their eyes were closed and their face relaxed, mouth so soft it almost looked sad.

The covers were a mess, the sheet draped over Beez’s shoulder and falling onto the floor, the duvet kicked down to the foot of the bed. Angela reached out to straighten both, and noticed Beez’s hand curled on the pillow. She swallowed. It was so small. How many babies had felt the touch of that hand as their first welcome to the world? How lucky each one was.

Angela couldn’t stop staring at the slender fingers, curved into a loose fist. That hand had been inside her a few hours ago, wringing out her pleasure. It was strong, and somehow delicate too. It had left a deep, satisfying ache in her cunt, a well-fucked feeling that she’d carry for the rest of the conference.

Angela felt a rush of affection. She wanted to hold Beez, protect them, rearrange herself around them. She reclaimed a pillow from the floor, then slipped under the covers and reached for Beez. They nestled immediately into her side, head on her shoulder.

The second time Angela woke up, blue dawn was pushing through the curtains, and Beez was gone.

Angela’s brain began rationalizing relentlessly even as she groped beside the bed for her phone, to check the news as she did every morning. Beez would have wanted a shower and a change of clothes, their own toothbrush and phone charger. Beez had to prepare for another full day of workshops and presentations, with their panel in the afternoon. Beez wasn’t the kind of person who’d wake you up just to say good-bye, but that didn’t mean they were upset or ashamed or would want to pretend it hadn’t happened. 

And Angela wasn’t even disappointed. There wasn’t anything to be disappointed about. She’d had an unexpectedly wonderful night, and she’d slept in a bit later than intended, but she still had plenty of time to read the headlines and review her e-mail before getting out of bed. She finished scanning the front page of the New York Times without taking in a single thing, then flicked over to her mail.

_From: B.Z. Kingson_

_To: Angela E. Gabriel_

_6:24 am_

_Angel - See you on the panel. Afterward I’ll want to tell you everything you said wrong, so I'm giving you my number. Text me. BZ_

Angela stared at her phone. She couldn’t stop re-reading Beez’s e-mail. It was too easy to imagine it spoken in the midwife’s affectionate sneer, too tempting to ascribe significance to the gift of a phone number. Skittish and skeptical, prickly and perverse, Beez had absolutely captivated Angela, and this was a clear declaration of reciprocal interest. Wasn’t it?

 _Angel._ Beez could be messy, and careless, but they wouldn’t leave the final letter off her name for no reason. Angela swallowed hard. She should get up, shower, dress and review the conference schedule.

She did none of those things. She burrowed under the covers, pressing her face into the pillow Beez had used, closing her eyes and licking her lips to revive the taste of them in her memory.

_Angel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! <3


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